


Cursed Be the Ties That Bind But Blessed Be the Bonds

by ERNest



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Affection, Bodyswap, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Imprisonment, M/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-11 16:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19931272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ERNest/pseuds/ERNest
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale, in each other's skin, learn what affection means from the other side.





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley flexes Aziraphale’s hand and looks down at the ropes holding him to the chair. It’s too thin to restrain him, but apparently miracles aren’t frivolous when it comes to punishing an angel who dared to question. He’s not really trying to escape, since that would defeat the purpose of this whole exercise, but he struggles just enough to sell the conceit. He mostly keeps looking back at the ring that serves as a mark of office and as a reminder of who he’s doing this all for. He’s hardly ever close enough for long enough to study all its curves and patina, and he has to remind himself to stop smiling.

They barely touched him this whole time and seemed disgusted whenever they had to. Crowley can feel how this body yearns for contact and knows for the first time that what he’s always read as reticence is really an intensity of affection that’s been earned through millennia of trust. The pit in his gut no longer bears any resemblance to fear. This is anger, pure and simple, and he could easily tear this whole system down with the way he’s feeling, but for Aziraphale’s sake, he doesn’t.

_Which_ single act of treason, Crowley wants to ask, is supposed to be the one that actually averted the Apocalypse? Because there were so many little moments and thoughts and phone calls before he declared he wouldn’t be fighting in any wars, and before he first tried to kill the Antichrist and then gave him a pep talk. But Upper Management doesn’t know about them, or doesn’t think they count, or has fused all these instances into a single mountain of a sin. Whatever it is, he doesn’t dare make it worse by lengthening the charge list just before the big show.

He smirks at all of them, but the face he’s wearing nervously pulls the smile back into neutrality. From the inside it feels like force of habit, like Aziraphale has never been comfortable around them and that anxiety has been written on his skin. The archangels are always ranked against him, too. He’d forgotten that part, the obsession with hierarchy and standing, the need to always have a place apart from the rest.

They fully expect him to just walk into the flames by his own power, which feels worse than anything else so far. Because if he takes those steps it will be used to claim that some part of him knew, deep down, that he deserved to be punished. He asks Gabriel to reconsider, and considers it a mercy, but of course he is laughed at, and of course he takes those few steps. Crowley takes great pleasure in spewing forth flames at the bastards and they let their boundaries down enough to reach for each other in fear. He laughs and basks in the hellfire, but a part of him is terribly sad in the knowledge that they would never do that for Aziraphale.

He resolves to give the angel a rib-crushing hug when they reunite. Or no – he’ll have to take it slow. When they hold hands to switch back, he’ll hold on for just a bit longer than necessary and see how that goes over before proceeding any further.


	2. Chapter 2

“So what’s it to be?” Aziraphale asks smirkingly – an adverb that comes naturally to this body even though he himself favors _scathingly_ when he wants to make a point. “An eternity in the deepest pit?” After all, he’s contemplated eternity quite a few times in the past and it doesn’t seem that long, especially if he won’t need to listen to The Sound of Music for any of it. Anyway, he has faith that Crowley wouldn’t make him wait that long.

As Aziraphale grins and preens and blusters in front of a trial of Crowley’s peers he thinks, “Oh, this is the reason for the houseplants.” It’s clearly a sham trial with the jury nothing but a ravenous mob, but to not even have a show of a defense attorney seems horrendous in a way that a summary execution wouldn’t. Even when the lowest echelons of Hell are trying to do things properly, all that means is finding a punishment painful enough to fit the crime.

No wonder threats are the language Crowley uses to express affection, if this is what he’s known for over 6,000 years. And they _are_ only threats; last night after hissing disgust at an Echeveria Elegans that “just didn’t make the grade,” the demon was gone for over an hour before returning with the empty pot, and it doesn’t take anywhere near that long to find a Dumpster, so he must have been seeking out a new home. Aziraphale just wants to help him help those living things that are only trying their best just like the demon himself is only trying his best, but he fears that despite being an angel he’s not up to the task.

When they shoved him through the maze of too-narrow hallways to get here, Aziraphale had to remember not to stare. No one’s fazed by physicality here and it just doesn’t mean anything to squeeze past each other with no apology or even indignation. Of course they’re all miserable, but that’s just because it’s Hell, and even if two entities who can’t _stand_ each other clamber over their enemies to get to the front of a line it’s nothing personal.

So if Crowley’s always returning to this viscous mass of bodies to deliver his reports and it’s just become his normal, then how could anything Aziraphale’s done in the past few centuries to demonstrate how he cares show up at all, much less as the love it is? The demon must have been so lonely for all these years, thinking he had no one.

Right, then. Aziraphale will just have to up his game. When they see each other again he’ll pour _all_ his love out through his eyes and maybe work up the nerve to touch the soft hair at the back of his neck. Or no – he’ll have to go as far as he can possibly bear without running away, which is how it’s always gone before. He’ll keep holding Crowley’s hand for just a bit longer than he has to when it’s time to switch back, and see how it goes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic was only going to have the two chapters, but then I realized I really wanted to see what happened when they hold hands for a bit longer than necessary, so I wrote it!

Crowley doesn’t rise from his slouch when he reaches for Aziraphale’s hand – well, it’s his own hand too. So that’s how those bones feel under the skin, this is how the knuckles twitch with nerves, here’s what Aziraphale feels when the pad of his thumb brushes against Crowley’s skin.

They concentrate and he can feel the angel’s focus push up against his own until neither of these clasped hands belongs to either one of them because they are both a mélange of elements. And then his hand is his own, long and angular and harbored by the solidity of Aziraphale’s. The change sweeps across his body as he regains pieces of himself. To revert to his preferred form feels natural and the suit that goes with it is such an easy transition that it is almost an afterthought. It is a shame to leave this person he has known better than a dwelling, but he is also coming home to himself.

As the bones of his skull reshape themselves he reminds himself of his promise to hold onto what he has found. Aziraphale _needs_ this contact, and he needs to show his friend how loved he really is. His vision adjusts as his normal eyes return but the man next to him is just as beautiful as he has ever been, all creams and blues in a spectrum he can distinguish.

His hair is the last to go, no longer fluffy and angelic, but straining for the sky. He rolls out his shoulder to get used to an old skin he doesn’t have to shed, and watches Aziraphale do the same. They don’t _need_ to keep holding hands at this point, and in fact they could have switched back without touching each other at all, but it was nice to do it like this, and it’s nice in the aftermath.

Crowley is so focused on not bolting from this thing he’s wanted for ages that it takes a while for the simple fact to sink in – even as he doesn’t let go, _neither does Aziraphale_! They are both here and both part of the same thing because they _want_ to be. He’d almost stopped believing in miracles despite performing acts that could be considered such, but this moment, this hand in his, must be a blessing, and not a minor one, either. Because Aziraphale’s not just holding on, he’s squeezing back, and he thinks his heart might burst from it. Now that he’s learned to see all those little looks and movements for the love it is, he can _feel_ it surrounding him.

Feeling bold, feeling petrified, he gives a little tug. It could become an embrace, it could become a dance, it could be a graceful way for Aziraphale to extricate himself if it’s all getting to be a bit too much for him, and Crowley would be content with any of those outcomes. Aziraphale follows his lead here and pulls him in at the same time to clap him on the back. Crowley reminds himself that breathing is something this body likes quite a bit and they linger there, his hand bunching up the fabric of the angel’s coat. He is solid, he is real, both of them have survived horrors, and at this point Crowley couldn’t say if the comfort is for Aziraphale or himself. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

When his hand is released suddenly he tries not to whimper because he promised he’d be okay with this no matter how it fell out, and this is already so much more than he dared hope for. But he doesn’t even have time to panic because that was just the set up for a proper hug, all warmth and softness and light. He is filled with awe, there’s no other word for it, as he squeezes tighter and drops his head to bury his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. How someone so _good_ could have arisen from a place as cold and lonely as Up There, and then survived it for as many millennia as he has, he doesn’t think he’ll ever know.

“Oh… my _dear_!” He didn’t even realize that he was crying until he felt the hand raised to his hair to sooth him. It _does_ sooth him, but it also makes him cry harder. “What happened?”

Naturally, he diverts his answer into another question. “How can it be that angels are beings of love but you’re the only one of the lot who got the message?”

“Ah.” Crowley supposes it’s some kind of character development that he’s not leaping over himself to explain why they’re not that bad really, but Aziraphale sounds so sad that he can’t really bring himself to celebrate. “How indeed?” He moves his palms up to Crowley’s shoulder blades and presses right where the wings are folded. “Did you know, the Archangel Michael was the one to deliver the Holy Water? Well what could I do but have her miracle me a bathtowel?”

Crowley manages a watery laugh and tightens his hold for a long moment, then draws back to look this remarkable man in the face. “I _was_ wondering why it was just the three of them,” he admits. “But you’re better than any of them, you know that, right?”

“Just as you say,” he says dubiously and Crowley can feel the shrug through the coat.

“Fine, that’s fair. Can you at least accept that you’re better than they’ve tried to tell you?”

“You do know me better than anyone else on this or any other plane,” Aziraphale says at last. “I suppose I just have to trust your judgment until I can believe it myself.”

“Great! So now that we’ve established that you’re a good person, it’s time to leave the garden. Can I tempt you to a spot of lunch?”


End file.
